


And Turn to Ghosts

by Sour_Idealist



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Body Horror, Captivity, F/M, Helmsman-fic, Stockholm Syndrome, Tentacles, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-14
Updated: 2011-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-27 07:50:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sour_Idealist/pseuds/Sour_Idealist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An engine hold. A queen who should have died. And space.</p><p>Looks like this is your world, now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Turn to Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> The troll anatomy in this fic was gleefully (and somewhat accidentally) stolen from [this fic,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/250204) which is far, far happier than this one (and just excellent) and I apologize for placing the two in the same sentence.
> 
> Heed the warnings, heed the additional tags. _Please._

You fit yourself into the ship, flesh pulsing against your fingers, and you know what you’re supposed to do. You don’t know how, but you do it anyway, and you don’t know why.

The door slides open – a whisper of sound, a rush of air, and you wonder how TZ did her thing, wonder if maybe it’s better that you don’t know, that you depend on the rush of old _old_ perfume and dust and rot as the footsteps drift closer. Hair slaps against your shoulders, tangled strands slipping along your arms like water along rockfalls, and you think that if you could see your entire field of vision would become you and her and thick coarse tumbles of black. As it is, your world is the ship and the sensation, the scent of her and the fingers settling against your cheek. They’re cold, very cold, and long – you’re tiny against her hand, tiny and fragile, she can set the base of one finger at your lips and hook the tip into the socket where your eye used to be, as she does now – and callused and bony and hard, and it’s not that you’ve felt so many thousands of people’s hands in your life, but you’re sure that hers are like no one else’s. In this universe or any other.

Her other hand slips beneath your belt and you try to pretend anyway.

“You’re despicable,” she murmurs, fingers brushing along your stomach to your slit, edge to edge. “So pathetic.” Her voice peaks on the _e,_ coils around the _h_ in a kind of extra _heh_ , and you wonder how FF knew. If she knew. “So tiny, and so disgustingly _warm_ ,” and her whole hand flattens out against you, fingernails digging in, and the tip of your bulge knocks against her palm. You’ve given up trying to stop it unsheathing. Her thumb dips into the side of your mouth, against your tongue, and you know she’s smiling. “And most of all,” she whispers, leaning in so close that her fin brushes against your cheek, cold and far too dry and frightening, “you give in so, so easily.”

She traces a fingernail along the top of your bulge as she lifts her hand away, and you hear the whisper of cloth on cloth, rustling louder as it falls to the floor. You feel the first brush against your thigh – rubbery, hard – and you tilt your head back, smile, remember.

“Feferi,” you whisper.

She hits you, angry, hard, enough to knock your head against her ship’s precious spinal cord, and you feel that faint dull impact long before the sharp sting on your cheek, the dampness sliding down the imprints of her rings. You hear her hiss.

“Filthy,” she murmurs, shuddering, her fingers pulling against your lips, against your eye socket again. “ _Filthy_.” Her tongue brushes along your cheek, seadwellers’ tentacles coiling between your legs, and your hips jerk up – out of your control, that time, so you grind up again, a little harder and a little longer.

“You know you love it, Feferi,” you whisper, and the noise she makes is too angry for a shriek, too high for a growl. Two more fingers dip into your mouth, another tentacle after, and another. She has so many, more than Fef had and longer and thicker than Fef’s ever were, or at least you think so – it’s hard to tell, without seeing. You lean back, try to stay still, lick your tongue along her and whisper _princess, princess, princess_ in time with her thrusts. You’re not fooling yourself, but you almost are, and you’re making her angrier with every desperate tender syllable. You’re maybe losing track of which reason is more important.

Afterwards, she leaves you with a final slap to the face and spittle soaking into the remains of your eye; she leaves you limp and soaked and shaking, and she storms out sounding unsteady on her feet. You hang there, and you let the ship pulse through you again, and you carry on and carry on.

She goes, she comes. Sometimes she says she means to stay; she never does.

It’s later and later and later, and you hear the door murmuring open. You tilt your head, as useless as the habit is, and call out, waiting for the anger: “Feferi.”

“Yes.” The voice is high and cracking and gentle, and almost a whisper, and the footsteps you hear are half-running, light and quick. “Sollux, yes. I’m here.” She cups your face in both her hands, small and stubby-fingered and soft against your cheeks, gentle and so very very cold. The blood-reek hits you, sharp and fresh and strong, and her clean silky hair tumbles against your skin.

You start to cry, and you don’t know if it’s relief or fear or joy or grief or all of them at once.


End file.
